M is for Mess
by Cascade Waters
Summary: A state of mind. Seventh in my letter chain.


M is for Mess

by firechild

Rated T

Warnings: um... really bad fight scene? Oh, and I don't skimp on family affection.

Disclaimer: I own only the non-canon characters (Charles and Margaret belong to whomever holds the rights to the Pretender.) Rolaid, anyone?

Seventh in my letter chain for the summer challenge.

-----

Everyone in the alcove stood frozen for a moment.

"...Father."

Colby gave a tight, humorless little smile that revealed more of his distress than he knew. "Yep. Father. As in Josiah Granger, owner of The End Zone and," he gestured toward the crowd in the lobby, "volunteer fire chief for Winchester, Idaho." Colby had loosened his Krav Maga hold, so that now it appeared that his arm kinked around the larger man's neck and hung down the massive chest in a gesture of casual affection. "Dad," he continued, "my team--my partner, Agent David Sinclair; around the corner with Suspiciousini #2 is our profiler, Agent Megan Reeves, and the nice dude holding the gun on you is my boss, Special Agent Don Eppes." Each agent nodded in turn, Don taking the hint and lowering his gun but refusing to look chagrined.

The resemblence was almost uncanny--the Granger men seemed to share everything but a couple of decades, a couple of inches in height and shoulder, a few worry lines, and their smiles. Don could guess where Colby had gotten his protective nature; the senior agent knew that they would have to clear Colby's father by the book, but his gut told him that he and this man would get along just fine. How Colby would feel about that might be an entirely different story, but as Don was getting past the first wave of relief and starting in on the fury, Colby's feelings weren't a particular priority just now.

"That's my husband; Charles, what's going on?"

The lead agent's attention veered back and to the side, where Megan kept a restraining hand on the other man in gray, a middle-aged woman standing nearby and looking distressed. The woman's discomfort notched up significantly when she caught sight of the suited man approaching the trio, followed by three more suits and a man she'd seen a few times at the hotel in the past few days.

"Nothing, dear," the man answered tightly, holding eye contact with Megan. "Just a misunderstanding." He didn't so much as twitch, giving the profiler the distinct impression that either he'd been in a similar situation before or he simply held no real fear for his current circumstances; either alternative chilled her, but the approach of her teammates interrupted her profile.

Before Don could say anything, Galvin pulled up beside him and quietly suggested that they take the civilians to a more private location; he noticed that her officers had formed a perimeter that gave the agents a little space to breathe as they were, but he immediately saw the sense in her suggestion. He stopped walking and turned slightly, corralling his agents and leading the three civilians across the rear of the lobby. Galvin spoke into her wt again, issuing orders and updating her team leads on her situation; this time she was able to establish fair contact with each team, and her seconds all assured her that they had things under control. She told them to contact her if anything changed, then she signed off as the group entered the stairwell leading up through the hotel.

-----

"Major, I'm sorry that you and your wife got caught up in this, and I hope you understand our motivation for hassling you, but I'd still like to know why you were steamrolling your way toward that alcove."

From his place next to his wife on the loveseat in his former suite, Retired Air Force Major Charles Stone nodded curt acceptance at Agent Eppes's apology, leveling his gaze on the younger man's eyes.

"I got myself caught up in this, young man, and we both know it, so don't worry about it. As for why I was, as you so aptly put it, steamrolling, the answer is simple--I'd seen your agents go back there with the civilian, and I had seen your Sinclair duck and disappear before the lights went out. Agent Eppes, I've spent the last four decades trying to find the children who were taken from us, trying to piece my family back together and keep them all safe, so you'll understand if I tend to take the notion of a young person in danger rather... personally." He took a sip of coffee from the cup that Detective Galvin had offered him, surveying the activity in the sitting room of what was now the police command center for this investigation, as he considered whether or not to share more information with the capable Special Agent seated on the coffee table before him. "I have to confess, I might not have been concerned with their safety if I hadn't seen their badges when they flashed them on the way across the lobby; one of my sons has worked with the Bureau before, so let's just say that I feel a little bit of affection by association." He smiled fondly as his wife laid her hand over his.

"Please forgive me for being a little... short with your agents when they interviewed me." Margaret Stone, still beautiful with her reddish hair and lively green eyes defying her worry lines, was, indeed, fingering her birthstone pendant as she spoke. "We haven't always had the best experience with people in suits with guns. When I saw your agent holding Charles, my first reaction was... well, it wasn't helpful. Rationally, I know that all of you are simply doing your jobs, trying to protect and defend, but..."

"It's not a problem, ma'am." Don waved away her apology. "You gave us what we need, and thanks to Detective Galvin and the quick work of the LAPD, as soon as the lockdown is lifted, you'll both be free to go."

Twenty minutes earlier, as the group of officials and civilians had been filtering into the sixth-floor command center, Galvin had held Eppes back in the hallway long enough to brief him on the identities of the Stones. Then, in what had seemed to be almost a providential sign that this day could get better, the agent and the cop had been delayed a moment longer in the hallway as the breathless young rookie officer had jogged to them, holding out an evidence envelope and puffing about security discs.

The discs, when viewed on the cutting-edge entertainment setup in the command center, turned out to be the sequenced security recordings from various points in the building during the times of each murder. Because the information had been obtained before the blackout, the officers who had been charged with delivering the discs to Galvin's Beta team lead had been trapped in another elevator, and when they'd finally reached their supervisor, Officer Shiles had passed the discs to the rookie to take to Galvin. Viewing the discs, Don had wondered idly if Charlie could have told him the likelihood that someone could have tampered with either the visual data or the timestamps on the discs, but from his own experience, he knew that that kind of tampering was difficult and time-consuming on the kind of security equipment the hotel used, so while he would check into it, he was willing for the moment to accept the clear alibis that the discs provided for both Chief Granger and the ex-Major. The Stones and Colby had been exceedingly relieved to hear the news, though Colby had looked distinctly unhappy about something, and Don had noticed that Chief Granger's hand was cupped around the back of his son's neck as Colby was making his assigned calls. Don had the distinct feeling that this particular incident was not over for the Grangers, but he could only dredge up faint sympathy for his young agent--it wasn't over between Granger and Eppes, either.

-----

"Man, I'm sorry I got you into this mess," Colby said mournfully, scrubbing his hand over his face as he handed his partner a cup of coffee.

David shrugged and sighed. "Aw, don't sweat it, Colb. I think we both dug this hole. Wish you'd told me what was going on when you first saw..." he waved his cup in the direction of his partner's father, who was watching the stock reports on the television on the other side of the bedroom. "Though, I gotta say, I have a feeling you're gonna be paying for this more than I am."

Colby dropped his head. "Dude, you do _not_ know the half of it."

-----

As he levered himself to his feet and left the Stones to their coffee and their thoughts, Don moved to the bedroom doorway, glancing in at his agents and their 'plus one,' organizing his own thoughts as he sipped his own coffee. He had just turned back toward the main part of the command center when he noticed that Galvin was on her radio again, hovering near the door. She looked up as the conversation ended, caught his eye, and nodded at his beckoning gesture. The detective strode over to where he stood, irritation snapping in her eyes. He knew that look, and drew a tense breath, praying that their case hadn't just gotten more complicated; he could feel himself losing his edge, and he knew from experience that at this point no amount of coffee or sugar would help.

"What's up?"

Galvin sighed, reaching up to rub her forehead a couple of times with the side of one thumb. "Not me." Ignoring the surprise in his eyes at her admission, the detective forced herself to focus again. "Terez just radioed me--there's an urgent call for Mr. Granger on the main line in the lobby, and for some reason they can't get it to transfer up here, so they're insisting that he come down to take it. You want to send Junior down with him?"

Don glanced back into the room again. "No. I've got Granger on the horn, trying to get through to the hotel owner to get the original wiring schems, which aren't in the archives here, and with the way things are going today, if he moves he'll lose the signal and never get it back. Besides, I'm not real inclined to let either of my guys out of my sight just yet, at least not until we figure out why their commlinks are LONH." Don caught Galvin's confused look and grinned in spite of his mood. He leaned toward her just a bit and said conspiratorially, "The lights are on but nobody's home. Which I could tell you describes Granger about half the time, but I'll be nice..." He winked, and the detective chuckled.

"Wow. Y'all Fed-types sure like your little secret codes."

Don grinned again. "Speak for yourself, '_A.P._'"

She gave an answering grin and completely sidestepped the teasing question in his eyes. "I'll take Mr. Granger down to the lobby--I'm sure whoever called has either gotten smart and left a message or decided to keep calling 'til they get through." She blew out a breath. "Guess that means I'll have to chance the elevators again."

"Yeah." Don stuck his head into the bedroom and asked Chief Granger to join them. The agent turned back to the detective and nodded. "I think the stairs may've been too much for him; I don't like the way he's limping."

"I can try to find a different style of limp, if it would make you feel better, son," the man in question said dryly. "Something in Armani, perhaps?"

The Fed and the cop exchanged quick sheepish looks before the agent turned to find only laughter in the older man's eyes. Being a good sport, Don blushed a little as he asked the elder Granger to go with the detective.

"Sorry about that, sir," she said once the two of them were alone in the hallway. "We were just--"

"Concerned, yes, I know. It's okay. And just to ease your mind, I'm fine; I got hurt on a run with my department a couple of months ago, messed up my knee pretty good, and it just hasn't finished healing yet."

Galvin nodded. "I hear ya. I got kicked by a horse couple years ago; it nearly ended my career. Still aches when the weather changes."

An elevator opened for them barely a second after Galvin pushed the button, and as they stepped into the car, Granger turned to the detective. "So, where are you from? You sound even less Californian than I do."

The young woman chuckled. "Good ear! I've smoothed out the drawl for the most part, but when I'm tired or upset it's harder to hide. Houston--I came out here years ago on a rookie exchange program, and they haven't turned me loose yet!"

They barely had time to share a grin before the car lurched and the lights died once more. Galvin had stumbled into Granger, but before either could get a handle on the situation, the trapdoor in the top of the car groaned, squealed, and then dropped in, not just opened but severed, so that the rectangle of mirrored metal came down on the detective's head; for her, the moment ended in a feeling that was more anger than terror and a blinding flash of white from the pain. She didn't realize that she'd unsheathed her gun and flipped off the safety without any conscious thought when she'd heard the protests from the trapdoor; she never felt the booted feet that collided with her torso, breaking her grip on the weapon. She didn't see the muzzle flash or hear the shot that resounded horribly inside the cramped car. Granger had no time to peel himself off of the side of the car or to try to protect the young woman from their assailant before he felt a ripping pain at his scalp, and a deeper darkness claimed him.

-----

He was running out of time.

He'd known from the beginning that this would be a difficult challenge to meet, even for a being such as him, but because the filth that followed him had gotten in the way four times now, he was going to be hard-pressed to meet his deadline. He hated to think that justice might have to be served by taking extra time bringing agony to one particular victim rather than killing all fifty, but if that was what must be, then he would fulfill his new task with zeal. After all, he finally had his hands on his Idaho, and he was willing to consider the cop tramp a bonus.

Cutting the power had been more convenient than he'd expected; he'd even been able to have fun selecting which floors to cut off, which not only made his task easier but also added to the feeling of omnipotence, knowing that the scum filling the lobby would not even realize that their 'god' had struck again.

He left the firearm in the elevator--let the dregs have a plaything while he worked. The smell of the blood pouring from the chit's head wound was noxious, but he could not be bothered to have a physical reaction to it as a mere mortal would. He simply dropped the limp female body in a corner and went back for the real prize.

His Idaho--moving it was as much of a challenge as he'd expected, and his muscles rejoiced at the burn of the effort. The fact that, at his age, he could still manage to carry such human trash up more than three levels of an elevator shaft and down the hall to the weight room, all in the dark, added to his satisfaction. He had always been a large man, and now he considered that a gift to himself.

Unwilling to brook any sort of distraction, he wiped the tramp's blood from his hands, vaguely annoyed at the sudden cold itch in his hip.

Once again he praised himself for his organization skills, glad that his supplies were all laid out, surrounded by battery-operated camp torches which formed an eerie swirl of orange light and gray shadow. He dumped his burden just outside the edge of the workspace, ignoring the looming forms of the weight machines. An almost inaudible moan of pleasure and longing escaped his lips. Running his fingers lovingly once more over his tools, he began the ritual of unfolding the Idaho flag, laying it face-down on the floor in the center of his lighted space, then changing the routine slightly by choosing five flags rather than the typical one, examining each to ensure quality as he placed it with the others. The map of Winchester, pathetic as it was, lay ready along the perimeter. He picked up his new headless axe handle and placed it with the rest of the tools, though this time he wasn't sure if he would choose to use it in the end or to simply let this victim die slowly. Either way, the tent stakes would serve nicely as devices of penance. It was quite a departure from his usual act--ordinarily, he couldn't be bothered with the dying, only with the fact of death--but in this case he found a certain dark beauty in it, especially since this big husk of refuse would have time to know that it was dying for the innumerable sins of its kind.

He heard a low moan, this time sure that it was not his own voice, and he smiled to himself, rubbing his hip absently with one hand as he reached for a tent stake with the other.

It was time.

-----

The airwaves in the hotel were full of official jargon as everyone attempted to get a handle on the situation at once. This time, lack of electricity wasn't going to stop the agents and cops from finding their people. The second power outage could have been incidental, but it just felt too orchestrated from the start. Something deep in Eppes's bones had vibrated with the wrongness of the situation, and it hadn't taken long before one of Galvin's officers had confirmed that the power was still on in the lobby. Before anyone could react to that news, trained ears caught a distant gunshot.

Now Eppes worked his way down the sixth-floor corridor, gun at cautious ready, feeling more than hearing the others as they ghosted along on different paths. Someone had found flashlights for the command center after the first blackout, and though there were only enough for every other person, the officials simply buckled down and dealt. They'd divided into pairs before leaving the suite--Reeves and Sinclair had each partnered with a member of the LAPD, giving each of them radio access. Eppes had had a brief struggle at the idea of letting his agents separate again, but he had to trust them. Knowing that Galvin had taken Colby's father to the elevators, Eppes had nearly assigned Granger and a police partner to the service stairs, but going on his gut, he'd taken the youngest agent as his own wingman, another decision that he realized, in some back corner of his mind, that would carry consequences he'd have to hash through later. Before he could enter the elevator bank, though, he was startled by a rookie officer who identified himself and handed radios to both men.

They pried open the elevator doors, set by set, unwilling to risk missing either their own people or others who might be trapped in a potentially dangerous position. Out of six elevators, they discovered that three were on or near the ground floor and two were resting on floors above six. Only one seemed to have riders, as they called back in response to the agents' shouts, so Granger made a radio call to the ranking officer in the lobby to check into the problem, trying to pretend as he did so that his heart hadn't all but stopped when his father's voice wasn't among the riders.

The sixth car, however, seemed to be lodged between floors four and five, and something about the scene looked wrong even in the near-pitch darkness. At Eppes's order, Granger shone the flashlight down on the top of the car--and both agents sucked in a quick breath. The maintenance access panel was missing, and there seemed to be no one aboard, but something caught the younger agent's eye, and he leaned out over the edge into the shaft to shine the light closer to the car. Before his supervisor could question the move, Granger announced that he could see something and demanded that he be lowered into the car. Eppes pulled him back, and when Granger geared up to argue, his lead made the point that they needed to check the stability of the cable system before adding weight to the car. Granger reluctantly agreed, and together they worked the light around to check visible points on the cables, noting that they weren't hearing the groan of stressed couplings, which meant that the odds were with them. As Eppes was lighter, they agreed that he would be the one lowered onto the top of the car; once that task was complete, Eppes used the flashlight to examine the interior of the car.

His heart lurched.

He saw the trapdoor. He saw what appeared to be a police-issue firearm near one corner. And he saw the blood. Even in the darkness, he could identify it, both by pattern and by the faint odor. What he couldn't know was whose blood it was.

-----

"You know," he said conversationally as he rubbed the stake gently with his thumb, reveling at the cool surface and how it would soon be hot with blood, "you really should feel honored. I don't do this for just anyone."

Josiah Granger shuddered a little, casting around in his mind for any idea of what to do. He knew he had to get to the detective, make sure she was okay, but she was heaped across the room, unmoving, most likely dead from her wounds and blood loss, the Coleman Killer between them.

Oh, yes, he knew whom he was dealing with here. He couldn't recall a name just yet, but he knew. He well remembered the reports of the terror that had gripped state and national park tourists and workers almost three decades ago. He remembered the slowdowns of map and flag sales of all kinds as no one wanted to be suspected of being the killer. He remembered having to reassure customers while keeping an iron grip on his own child, despite the sudden absence of killings.

And he remembered the face.

Josiah had never been spectacular with names, but he had a near-photographic memory for faces, and he'd seen this one before. He'd done business with him a couple of times--a memory which sent his stomach roiling as he thought about the chain of events that connected himself to the horrifying slayings. This sociopath had bought some of the items used in his first killing spree from Josiah. The one person in the world who had made him fear most for his irrepressible child had, at one time, been a customer, someone with whom he'd exchanged pleasantries, someone he'd invited back to his store.

Someone he'd invited back to his world.

Someone who had been walking, eating, sleeping alongside Josiah's smokebrothers for days, preying on them unchecked, creating a situation that had brought Josiah's son within the killer's reach.

Knowing that this had to stop, that the terror had to end here, the merchant cast his gaze around for something he could use as a weapon--and found nothing within reach. Lacking a weapon or a tool, his only resources now were his strength, his speed, and his wits, all of which he feared were compromised by the searing headache that kept blurring the edges of his already-limited vision.

"Idaho. What a dismal place. Suits you. You know, i just can't figure out why it is I'm so fascinated with you and your state. I could have picked anyone, but I chose you. Oh, I thought about taking the younger one, but there's just something about your face that bothers me. I think I've seen you before." The killer shrugged. "Ah, well, no matter--it'll be over for you soon enough. Or at least, soon enough for me." Somehow, the calm tone and the lack of a maniacal laugh made the statement more malevolent. It also had the effect of galvanizing Josiah's resolve; knowing that his son had actually come close to being a victim, to being in this room right now, infused the elder man with a kind of power no wire could carry.

With a huge effort, Josiah pretended to be dazed as the killer approached, offering with an odd gentleness to help him onto his flag. The killer seemed to like the idea of small talk, as he waxed poetic for a moment about how well the blood would contrast with the blue silk and how he hoped that it would saturate the seal. He commented, while maneuvering the merchant carefully between two torches to center him on the flag, that since he wasn't going to get to any of the other states, Idaho would have to be his masterpiece. He said he was sure that none of the other states would have given him a challenge, anyway.

_Oh, so it's a challenge you want, eh, Buster?_ Josiah thought, his jaw clenching and then relaxing before the killer could see.

Josiah watched his assailant kneel and turn to the small pile of camping equipment next to him. Not sure of what the killer had planned but knowing that he couldn't wait any longer, Josiah grabbed the moment and one of the camp torches, swinging it around and catching the killer across the backs of his ribs. The man grunted and lost his balance, then turned to Josiah, pain and shock mingling in his eyes, along with a kind of hurt, which all gave way to anger. He pounced on Josiah, wrestling the torch away from the weakened man and bringing it down in truncated blows to Josiah's side and thigh. Josiah fought through the pain, knowing that he couldn't afford to give even an inch if he was going to have a chance of ending this threat. He was dangerously close to blacking out, hearing cracks as the punishing blows rained down, but he fought for Colby, for every person who had lost a loved one to this monster--for Detective Galvin, who hadn't seen her own death coming.

Gritting his teeth and holding his breath, Josiah managed to roll just slightly to one side--enough to get his good leg up around the killer's legs and jerk, sending the killer off-balance and off of him. Unfortunately, the move didn't buy the merchant enough time to lay hands on anything useful, but he did manage to shift to a slightly more defensible position before the killer was on him again. They rolled, exchanging blows and grunts and blood, until Josiah's wounded head slammed into the base stabilizer bar on the bottom of a quad machine, leaving him feeling as though he had just been scalped. Before Josiah could recover, the killer was on his feet and lunging for his axe handle; the merchant tried to grab him but hadn't recovered enough of his senses to aim his grip, so he could only watch as the killer grinned ferally and brought his axe handle slamming down into the side of the knee Josiah had been favoring. The firefighter arched, screaming in agony, and just barely managed to move his head before the axe handle crashed down where his skull had just been. Acting almost literally on blind instinct, Josiah grabbed the handle, his weakened grip just enough to surprise the killer into letting go. Josiah didn't have enough room to swing and the killer was coming toward him again, so the merchant threw the handle with as much force as he could muster, striking a glancing blow across the front of the killer's right hip. He knew he hadn't thrown it all that hard, so he was almost as surprised as the killer when the sociopath's leg buckled and he dropped hard into a kneel; Josiah heard a crack and thought that the killer might have a fractured kneecap.

That was as far as he got with that thought, though, because suddenly the killer was holding one of the orange caution flags, and he brought his pointed weapon down on his victim with savage fury. Josiah cried out as the flag buried itself in his shoulder and then was yanked out; a moment later, the killer was obviously aiming for Josiah's head, screaming obscenities so loudly that they nearly didn't hear it.

"Freeze! Drop it, drop it _now_, or I drop you."

Josiah took the moment of distraction as a chance to move out of target range, rolling onto his left side and reaching out even as he covered his own shock.

The killer turned slowly, eyes widening at the sight of the pale, blood-drenched woman holding a small but serious-looking pistol on him. Taking stock quickly of his situation, he decided which of his victims posed the greater threat to him at that moment. He dropped the flag, turning back toward the merchant--and then pivoting to lunge for the cop's gun.

He screamed in pain as the camp torch in Josiah's hands connected with the bullet wound in the killer's hip, digging in and making him truly aware of his injury for the first time. He bucked and writhed, and the wounded animal in him took over, snarling and grabbing for Galvin's throat.

She met him halfway, grasping his wrists in one of her hands and meeting his eyes. She was bloody, dirty, disheveled, weak, pale, and halfway to oblivion. He started to fight her hold, managing to slam their hands up into her jaw, but when she just shook it off and glared at him, the killer started to shake with rage and fear. He twisted his own wrists so hard that one of her thumbs was pulled out of joint, and the flash of pain loosened her grip on him. Then he was on top of her, anchoring her thighs. For a terrifying moment, the killer managed to get hold of her clinch piece, but was momentarily stunned when the lights came back on. Galvin sucked in her breath, gathered her rage, and gave one mighty buck that would have made any rodeo steer proud. The unexpected move had managed to unseat him, and she used his own momentum against him, rolling him onto his back and pinning him, the muzzle of her recovered weapon tucked against his throat, her left knee lodged up under his first right rib, and her right knee pressed straight down into his groin.

"Do ya _really_ wanna mess with Texas?"

-----

"Granger, I believe we missed the party."

Don lowered his gun slightly but kept it at the ready as he and Colby surveyed the scene in the weight room. They had followed the trail of blood, first by flashlight and then by electric light, from the elevator up to the eighth floor and then to here, where the sounds of a fight had given them both hope and dread. By the time they'd managed to get past the file cabinet the killer had leaned agaist the outer door of the excercise complex, the sounds had ceased, and both men had feared the worst.

So when they entered the room, identifying themselves loudly and fully expecting to find at least one, if not two, fatalities, they were struck momentarily speechless at the sight before them: three very battered individuals--Galvin sitting against a wall and holding her clinch piece at half-guard, the elder Granger half-laying on a torn and bloody Idaho flag, and an altered suspect facedown on the quad machine with his legs pinned by the weights and his wrists tied to the bench support with a wet gym towel. It took them a few seconds to recover, after which Agent Eppes started issuing orders into his radio while he checked the suspect and then knelt before Galvin, while Agent Granger picked his way across the room with the finesse of an experienced hurdler to drop to his knees by his father's side. Colby started checking his father over, cataloging injuries while his sure fingers tested gently for breaks and dislocations. Josiah tried several times to wave off the ministrations, but Colby finally snatched his father's hand in frustration, then held onto it as he met the older man's eyes and quietly asked him how he felt.

"Like a potato in a tennis raquet factory."

Colby laughed, the act moving his entire body and sounding dangerously close to a sob, as he leaned down and gently rested his forehead against his father's. Josiah reached up and stroked his son's cheek lightly with his fingertips.

"Hey--are _you_ okay?"

Colby snorted. "Me? Oh, yeah, Dad, just peachy."

The stroking became a light slap, not enough to sting but meaningful in itself. "Hey--you don't lie to me, boy. Ever."

Colby could only smile at the firm, strong note in his father's voice. "Really. I'm okay now. Now that I know you're not gonna go and die on me--'cause let me tell you, I am _not_ explaining that one to Mom."

Josiah chuckled. "Then would you mind terribly if we got out of here? I think we've torn this place up enough for one day."

Colby took a cursory glance around without breaking their forehead contact. "Yeah, no kidding. Long as I don't have to clean up this mess..."

Josiah raised his eyebrows against his son's. "Oh, I'm pretty sure you've got enough of those racked up today already."

-----


End file.
